


take this sinking boat and point it home

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, M/M, Reincarnation, Role Reversal, and a functional family life oh my god, bacon pancakes, i'd like to say i regret nothing BUT I DO I REGRET EVERYTHING, in which the author's new york thing is kind of incredibly obvious, of a sort, robb has a few issues and only some of them relate to westeros, theon has a not-so-secret broadway obsession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Today your barista is: 1. Hella fucking gay, 2. Desperately single. For your drink today I recommend: you give me your number."</i> Or, Theon puts up a sign and ends up with more than he bargained for, and Robb's looking to start over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take this sinking boat and point it home

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time there was a girl named Effy who reblogged [this](http://robbtaire.tumblr.com/post/51798335025/brolininthetardis-this-is-a-coffeeshop-au) on Tumblr and left a tag rant on it. She was encouraged by [janiedean](http://janiedean.tumblr.com) and [lordtheongayjoy](http://lordtheongayjoy.tumblr.com/) to write it, and a few months later came up with [this fanmix](http://robbtaire.tumblr.com/post/64105268353/so-hey-guess-what-swallowed-my-entire-day-if-you). She was very sure she'd never write a fic for it, but it lodged herself into her brain and now this fic happened.
> 
> I'm so incredibly sorry.
> 
> [This](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C2cr7SBBT6A) is the bacon pancake song that Robb uses in the fic, by the way.

The thing is, Theon put that sign up for a joke. Okay, maybe slightly more than a joke, but he’d be kidding if he said he seriously thought he had a chance of reeling anybody in with it. Hell, it’s a miracle he even got away with hanging the damn thing in the first place at all—he’s forever thankful to Loras’s weird sense of humor there, really.

And then fucking Robb walked in and smiled at him with those blue, blue eyes and unruly red curls and said, “Can I have a latte and your number,” and Christ, he really should’ve known then.

See, here’s the other thing: sure, Robb sucks dick like a pro. Sure, the noises he makes when Theon gets on his knees and swallows him down goes straight to Theon’s cock. Sure, they had spectacular sex, but, and here’s the thing, it’s only going to happen once, and only _once_. It’s one of Theon’s rules: never fuck a guy more than once. He did it before, and he’s learned his lessons the hard way.

It’d be a whole lot easier, really, if Robb didn’t _keep walking into the shop_ , because then Theon would just forget his blue eyes and red curls and stupidly attractive smile and penchant for skinny jeans that show off his ass and legs _really_ well and slight Scottish accent and goddammit, it would honestly be a lot easier not to mind if he was just there to find a way to fuck Theon again, but of course Robb doesn’t want to. Of course he actually liked the lattes.

Of. Fucking. _Course._

—

"There’s a guy at the coffeeshop who I’m pretty sure is trying to court me," he says to Asha one day, when he comes over to her firm with a box of Krispy Kreme to help celebrate her winning her case. The entire place looks like a party tornado passed through it, with confetti littering the desks and a broken pinata hanging from the ceiling and an eyesore of a banner reading "WE WON" hanging limply from the doorway. Looking at it, he’s pretty sure that if he didn’t know any better, he’d think this is a frat party and not a law firm, if not for Asha sitting on the desk sipping calmly from a mug of coffee that proclaims her to be "WORLD’S BEST LAWYER".

"Really?" Asha asks. "Have Loras and Renly broken up or something?"

Theon snorts, says, “No, they’re too in love. It’s another guy—his name’s Robb, cute guy, has the best ass in skinny jeans in New York.” He takes a bite of his glazed donut, swallows, and says, “And I may have bedded him.”

"Did you tell him you weren’t open for repeats?"

"I _did_ , and he’s told me he isn’t looking for repeats.” He very resolutely resists the urge to kick a desk. Asha’s had them bolted down, he’s more likely to stub his toe and hop around yelling bloody murder. “But I’m pretty sure he’s trying to court me. Like, the old-fashioned way. Next thing you know he’ll be standing underneath my window with a boombox blaring Madonna or Lady Gaga or, god help me, _Katy fucking Perry_ like a John Hughes movie.”

Asha snorts. “God, Theon, it isn’t my fault your tastes in music are more Broadway-centered,” she says. “But look—does he want to hurt you?”

Theon blinks. “Of course not,” he says. “I mean, so far, the worst he’s done is think _Glee_ is any good, and that’s correctable enough. He even volunteers at animal shelters on weekends.” Okay, sure, so there’s some scars that Robb doesn’t talk about, some bruises that didn’t completely fade with time, but as curious as Theon is, it isn’t any of his business.

Asha stares at him. “How do you know he volunteers at animal shelters on the weekends?” she asks.

"We talk after I get off my shift," Theon says. _And sometimes he looks at me with this look in his eyes like he’s lost and found and lost something all over again,_ he doesn’t add. “He’s pretty cool, liking _Glee_ aside.”

Asha stares at him for a long moment, something unreadable in her eyes as she taps her fingers against the side of her coffee mug. Then she says, “God, Theon.”

"What?"

"Nothing," she says. "You’ll figure it out in time, I’m sure. For now, help me find Dagmer, I’m pretty sure he passed out in a closet somewhere around here."

—

On one of the rare days when Theon doesn’t come in—something about his mother trying to get her boyfriend Chuck to bond with him and Asha with a trip to Disneyland and goddammit Loras would you shut it—Loras says, “You realize you’re not fooling anyone? With the whole _‘I’m just here for the lattes'_ routine?”

Robb all but drops his latte in shock, cursing as the hot liquid spills onto his shirt. “What do you mean?” he asks, trying to be casual.

"You’re trying to court Theon," Loras says, and Robb resists the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. "You’re working up the nerve to ask him out, and you’re doing it through coffee."

"Am I that obvious?" he asks.

Loras huffs out a laugh, and smiles a little. “You looked like a really sad puppy when you came in today,” he says.

"I don’t look like a puppy," Robb huffs. "I just—I’m actually a lot more used to him than I thought?" The excuse sounds weak to his ears, and evidently, to Loras as well, because the man snorts and shakes his head, as if he honestly cannot believe what he’s dealing with.

"You two are the densest people I’ve ever met," Loras says.

Robb cracks a smile, and takes a sip of his latte. “I’ve been told,” he says, evasively, and changes the subject.

—

The truth is, Theon is, for the most part, why he visits the coffeeshop as much as he can. But it’s not to court him, because how would that even _work_ now? Robb’s job isn’t exactly conducive to expensive dinner dates or gifts or things like that, and he’s not about to go to the Allens, not when he’s already gotten away from them. Anyway, Theon’s told him, upfront, that he’s not open to repeats, and that’s honestly not what Robb is looking for.

No, he’s just looking for a fresh start.

To be honest, he’s tried not going to the coffeeshop once, after that night with Theon. He’d even planned out an alternate route, but his traitorous feet carried him down the street and turned left down the lane where the coffeeshop was before he even realized where he was going.

He didn’t mind then, he doesn’t mind now.

Okay, maybe he _does_ mind. Slightly.

See, Theon’s _happy_. He’s happier than he was, in Westeros, even with the scars he doesn’t talk about. He’s got a steady job, a functional family life, everything that he didn’t have in Westeros. He’s happier, he doesn’t remember, and by all rights, Robb shouldn’t be hanging around the coffeeshop, because what if he does remember? From what Brienne’s told him, Theon didn’t exactly have an easy time of it after his death.

But Robb keeps coming back anyway.

Because, again, Theon’s _happy_. And to be honest, he barely ever saw Theon grin like that, genuine and free and excited and honest, even back in Winterfell. Here, it’s one of the most common sights around, and Robb would miss it. And not just the smile, he’d miss the Broadway showtunes drifting through the shop, miss Theon’s hilariously awful jokes, miss his secret fondness for Joni Mitchell and romantic comedies and not-so-secret fondness for _Captain America: The First Avenger_ and _300_ , miss his smirk and regular grumbling about his English professor’s sadistic tendencies and the easy back-and-forth banter they’ve fallen into so quickly.

So instead of doing what he should probably do and leave Theon be, he lets his feet carry him forward, down the street, left down the lane, and into the coffeeshop.

—

They’re sitting in their usual corner booth, sipping lattes and eating donuts, when Theon decides he’s finally had enough of it, and says, “So are you courting me?”

Robb stares at him, bites into his donut, swallows and says, “No.”

Theon snorts. “Robb, I’m not _dumb_ ,” he says. “I mean, why the hell do you keep hanging around?”

"I’ve told you, I like the lattes." And there’s that casual shrug, but Theon can’t help but wonder if he’s keeping something. Which shouldn’t really matter here, because Robb was a one-time thing, and they both know that, and it shouldn’t hurt so much. “And, okay, maybe I like talking with you. Doesn’t mean I’m courting you.”

"So why did Loras say that you looked like an especially sad puppy while I was away at Disneyland?"

Robb’s eyes widen, then he lifts his cup up to his lips and downs the entire thing in one go. “That asshat,” he mutters. “Like I said, I like talking to you. It’s kind of become a part of my daily routine. And, hell, I like _you_. And I’ll admit, I liked the sex too, but I’m fine with just talking with you. I wouldn’t court you if you didn’t want me to.”

There’s something more to what he’s saying, Theon can tell that much. But he’s not talking about it, and it’s not his business to pry, anyway. They’re just two guys who fucked once and who might like each other in that way still—friends, he supposes they could be called. Who met by way of sex.

Theon absolutely refuses to admit that he doesn’t hate the idea of their being more than that, but the door’s been closed on that possibility a long time ago.

"Yeah," he says. "Okay, sure. You’re like a puppy, you know—a tiny, adorable little puppy who follows someone home and absolutely refuses to leave, and honestly I’d rather you didn’t." He gestures to Loras, chatting with Renly at the counter with the goofiest grin, and says, "If you did, you’d be depriving me of the only non-Renly-obsessed company I’ve had in ages around here."

"I heard that!" Loras yells.

"It’s true!" Theon yells back, then turns back to Robb. "But seriously, though," he says, "out of all the one-night stands I’ve ever had, you’re the only one who bothered to cook me breakfast, shitty as it was."

Robb huffs out a laugh, and Theon steadfastly ignores how light the sound makes him feel. “Well, excuse me for trying,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate reheated ramen, anyway.”

"You’re also the only one who’s ever actually visited the shop to talk to me about whatever on a regular basis," Theon continues. "So, seriously, do stick around."

Robb smiles, the one that seems to light up his blue, blue eyes. “I plan on it,” he says.

Theon looks, really _looks_ at him then—the sunlight hitting his hair at just the right angle, the way his eyes seem to shine, his slightly-crooked teeth and light scruff.

_You’re the only one who looks at me with sad eyes sometimes,_ he thinks. _You’re the only one out of all the guys I’ve ever fucked, Bolton included, who stuck around afterwards and made me breakfast. You’re the only one who likes Bon Jovi and Train and Katy Perry and Glee with equal passion. You’re the only one who I’ve ever slipped a free cookie without Loras knowing, the only one who I know for a fact has a fondness for lattes and a secret crush on Hugh Jackman and a weird obsession with donuts, the only one whose number I kept afterwards, the only one out of god knows how many who decided he wanted to stick around, and not for the sex._

_You’re the only one I wouldn’t mind doing it again with._

He blinks, and for a moment it’s like they’re sitting together on a log, exhausted after a hunt, and there are snowflakes in Robb’s hair, and he’s smiling at Theon and it feels _right_ , it feels _real_ —

—then he blinks again, and Robb is sitting across from him with a worried look on his face, saying, “Theon? You okay?”

"Yeah," he says, staring at Robb and the sunlight in his hair and imagining how it’d look like if it had been snowing outside and snowflakes lingered in his red curls. "Yeah, I’m fine."

_Oh,_ he thinks. _So that’s what Asha meant._

Christ, he is well and truly fucked.

—

He hits up bars, sometimes, after he gets off work and he and Robb are done talking about everything and nothing. Half the time it’s to pick someone up, the other half of the time it’s just so he can drink.

Today it’s the latter, because Robb hasn’t swung by today, and Theon is just—god, he hates this weird feeling of hurt and disappointment, because Robb’s got a life outside the coffeeshop too. He can’t come by every day, despite his best efforts.

That’s what he keeps telling himself, and yet he walks into the bar anyway, looking for nothing more than a drink. He glances around, scanning the crowd and appreciating some of the more attractive patrons, when he spots Robb sitting on a bar stool, a line of empty shot glasses in front of him, tipping his head back as he drains another of its contents.

He doesn’t know what, exactly, draws him towards the guy, but he walks over, slides into the seat beside him, and says, “Have you been drinking all day?”

Robb’s eyes snap up from his drink to meet his, and now that Theon’s close enough he can see that there’s a flush to Robb’s cheeks that could only come from drinking quite a bit, and his fingers are twitching as if they’re itching to hold something. His mouth falls open in surprise.

"Close your mouth, Robb," Theon says, "wouldn’t want you to eat flies by accident."

"What are you doing here?" Robb asks, in a tone full of surprise.

"Drinking," Theon replies. "Or I was about to." _Why didn’t you come?_ he wants to ask. “What’s up?” he says instead.

Robb licks his lips, stares down at his empty glass. The smile’s gone, replaced by haunted, dull blue eyes, and Theon thinks back to that night, to the scars and bruises that he’d seen ( _doesn’t matter,_ Robb had said when he’d asked, then kissed him and buried his hand in his hair and sent sparks shooting down his spine). “The woman who raised me for nine years called me this morning,” he says, finally, almost hesitantly, his voice slurred with drink. “And let me put it this way—it wasn’t exactly nice.”

Theon stares at him, and thinks, _oh._ He’s heard of parents like that, people who never should’ve been allowed to adopt. He has a father like that, in fact, but he and Balon have barely spoken to each other three times in the years following his mother divorcing the man, save for that spectacular little argument post-coming out.

"So you’ve been drinking ever since?" he asks.

"I was planning to throw myself into work to forget it," Robb says, "but, as it turns out, I can’t do that anymore, since I don’t _have_ any work.” He lets out a bitter laugh this time, and beckons the bartender over to ask for another shot.

"Jesus," Theon says. "That sucks."

"Yeah," Robb agrees. "How—what’s the word? For when you say something that’s kind of smart but also incredibly obvious?”

"You’re asking me?" Theon snorts. "My sister’s the lawyer, she’s good with words. I’m the guy who makes coffee and puts up signs asking cute guys to give me their numbers when I’m horny." The bartender comes over with a bottle of whiskey and another shot glass, places it down in front of Robb and fills it without a word, then walks off. Theon glances at him for a moment, then back at Robb. "Seriously, though," he says, "wanna talk about it? I’m here."

Robb stares at him, something like sorrow and desire and regret and familiarity in his haunted blue eyes. “I think I got it,” he says. “Eloquent. And—look, Theon, I don’t know if I want to talk about it.”

"Tell you what," Theon says, "I’ll tell you something about me, you tell me something about you. And it’s not something we both already know, so don’t tell me about your weird _Glee_ thing. And then I’ll haul your drunken ass back to wherever you live.”

"And if I don’t feel like going back home just yet?" Robb asks, brutally honest, looking at Theon with a plea in his eyes. He wonders if it’s the beer, that he can hear what Robb isn’t asking him— _please let me stay with you for a while, let me forget._

"My place is near here," he says. "You can sleep on the couch. Also, by the way, I’ve never told anyone else this, but up until I was six I was absolutely terrified of dogs."

Robb downs his glass, says, “Is that so? Are you still scared of them?”

"Nah," Theon says. "Honestly, I don’t really know why I was scared of them so much. Probably I saw some horror movie featuring dogs and I ended up being scared out of my wits or something."

"I’m pretty sure that’s not how a phobia works," Robb says, with a more genuine laugh, a little brightness returning to his eyes. "And good for you—I happen to like dogs."

"Of course you do," Theon says. "You’re an adorable puppy who follows people home and refuses to leave and gets them attached to your presence. You _like_ your kind.”

"Not a puppy," Robb huffs, but he’s grinning now. "And since you insist on playing this game, fine. I like medieval history—castles, kings, queens, knights—"

"—peasants dying everywhere, the Black Death, really gory executions, torture," Theon adds.

"And the shit," Robb says. "Don’t forget that." He smiles at Theon (and what does it say about him, that it sends his heart fluttering in his chest in ways no one else ever has), then downs his shot, digs into his pockets and pulls out some spare change as the bartender comes over.

Theon fishes a twenty out of his pocket and hands it over to the bartender, and says, “Does that cover it, or do you need any more?”

Robb blinks at him, surprise clear on his face. “Why—”

"Just trying to make your day suck less, Robb," he says.

Robb gives him a soft, hesitant smile.

Theon quietly curses the way it makes him feel as if his heart has grown wings, or hopped on a broomstick and flown off cackling into the western sky.

—

Robb is—well, he can barely walk in a straight line, honestly, so he has to lean on Theon. Which doesn’t really help, because whenever he looks at Theon he has to blink for a moment and remind himself that no, Theon isn’t wearing furs, nor does he have a quiver strapped to his back.

Fuck drinking. Seriously. It fucks up his sense of self, of knowing where and who and when he is, when he drinks this much, but what else is someone supposed to do when they’ve gotten laid off and their adoptive mother yells at them for being an ungrateful shit and for not appreciating the fact that she put a roof (that had always been in danger of collapsing, figuratively and literally) over their heads every other year or so?

Right. Forget _that_.

"Hey," Robb says.

"Hey, what?" Theon asks.

"What kind of shampoo did you use today?"

Theon blinks at him, sighs, and says, “Never tell anyone this, but it’s the kind that smells of citrus.”

"Oh." He holds on, his fingers gripping onto the fabric of Theon’s shirt ( _cotton,_ he thinks, despite the fact that he sees a flicker of furs and a cape and boiled leather, _green, with some band slogan on the front, no laces, no furs and you should smell of salt, like the sea_ ), and says, “Never figured you for citrus shampoo.”

"Shut up, it works wonders." Theon’s holding him up, and isn’t that a role reversal, Theon hauling Robb’s drunken ass out of a bar when Robb once dragged his wine-soaked ass out of the tavern and up the stairs of Winterfell. Robb kind of wants to laugh at the fact that they’ve switched roles in New York, and so he does, letting it bubble up and out. "Okay, asshat, what’s so hilarious about my using citrus shampoo?" Theon demands.

"Nothing," Robb honestly says. "Nothing, really, just—nothing."

"Wow, you really _are_ drunk, aren’t you.”

"I’m holding on to you, aren’t I?" he says. He doesn’t say anything about why else he’s holding on—because Theon’s _real_ , and some small differences aside he looks almost like he used to, except the smiles he gives are a lot more honest, except that he’s happier and it shows. Because while the streets and the cars and even his own place on occasion seem strange and alien to him, _Theon_ doesn’t.

And okay, he knows it’s more than a bit dumb, to place his trust in someone who betrayed him before, but things are different. He gets it now, understands why somewhat, though it still stings when he thinks about it, so he buries it deep, deep down.

Not a healthy way of dealing with things, he knows. Therapy’s said so, and so has Brienne, but Robb has never really taken their advice.

"You are," Theon acknowledges. "And tightly, at that."

"Maybe I just don’t want to fall flat on my face," he dryly says, as Theon hauls him up the steps and nods to the doorman. "Hi, mister."

The doorman just gives him a dirty look, but doesn’t say a word.

"Come on, Robb," Theon says, pressing the elevator button going up. Robb squints at it, momentarily unsettled by the strange glow coming from it, before he reminds himself not to be so freaked out by it. It’s an elevator. His apartment building has one. He regularly uses one, for Christ’s sake. "Don’t you pass out on me."

“‘M not,” he mumbles. It does sound like a good idea, though, to just pass out then and there. “Really.”

"Sure you aren’t," Theon grumbles, and Robb hums and buries his face in the crook of his neck. "Hey, don’t sniff."

"Not sniffing," he says. "Just getting comfortable. Hey, do you have something more substantial than ramen now?"

"Pancakes and bacon," Theon says, dragging him into the elevator when the doors open. "I was planning on making myself some bacon pancakes, you know, like on that kids’ show with the stretchy dog and the kid who keeps swinging a sword around."

"I watched that a few times," Robb says. "The one with the bacon pancakes and everything." He starts humming the tune, and okay, it sounds a bit off-key even to him, but hey, he’s drunk.

"Oh my god, just when I thought you couldn’t get any dorkier," Theon huffs.

The elevator dings all of a sudden, and logically, Robb knows it shouldn’t be anything to be afraid of, but he jumps somewhat anyway at the sound, startled.

"Whoa, whoa, you okay there?" Theon holds on, fingers twisting in his shirt ( _cotton, not leather,_ Robb thinks briefly), and it snaps Robb out of his—delusion, hallucination, memory, whatever. “Jesus, Robb, what did you drink?”

"Something strong," he says. "That’s really all I said to the bartender. Lots of whiskey?"

"How much?"

"Fucking lot?" Robb guesses. He’s still holding on to Theon, who’s hauling him out of the elevator and muttering something about phobias under his breath. "Hey, look, Theon, what you’re doing—"

"If you say one word that’s along the vein of ‘you don’t actually have to do this’, shut up and save it," Theon says. "It’s too late, anyway, we’re already here. Can you lean against the wall for a sec, I need to get my keys."

Robb lets go, almost reluctantly, and slumps against the wall as Theon fishes his keys out of his pocket and fumbles with them, then slips one key into the keyhole and turns to him. For a moment Robb’s somewhere else, outside his tent with Theon, talking of Pyke and war and honor, and then Theon says, “Robb, as much as I like being stared at, can you quit it and get inside? Or do you need me to help you up?”

He blinks, and staggers to his feet. “The world,” he manages, “needs to quit spinning,” then he lurches inside and collapses onto the carpet.

"Right," Theon sighs, "clearly you need my help to get up," and then hauls him up so Robb’s on his feet, and half-drags, half-carries him over to the couch.

Robb’s fall onto the couch is kind of undignified, but he’s done plenty of undignified things in this lifetime, so he just curls up and looks up at Theon, who kneels down next to him with a corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

"Thank you," he says.

"You’re welcome," Theon says, and there’s something soft in his eyes, like he’s seeing something new and beautiful and slightly terrifying, and Robb doesn’t know what it is, hopes it’s not memories.

He thinks, suddenly, that he wants to kiss him. Just—just press his lips against Theon’s, not even for that long, just for a brief moment, just to taste him again.

But he knows he can’t. Once and only once, Theon had said, and Robb is okay with that. Really. He is.

He reaches out with one hand, to brush his fingertips against Theon’s cheek, and says, “You made my day better.”

"Could say the same for you," Theon says. "Go to sleep, Robb. I’ll be in the room if you need me."

—

It’s around three in the morning when someone screams.

It’s not a good scream. It’s not even a cheap horror-movie scream that Theon can just chalk up to someone watching horror movies in the wee hours of the morning. It’s not a high-pitched valley-girl scream. It’s a real, terrified scream that can’t be human, that speaks of loss and grief and desperation and pleading, and Theon all but falls out of bed at the sound.

He throws his door open, not even bothering to pull pants on, and sees Robb on the couch, clutching at the pillows and screaming, screaming like someone’s just killed someone he loves in front of him, and Theon doesn’t even think before he’s rushing to his side and shaking him awake.

"Hey—hey! Robb! For fuck’s sake, Robb, _wake the fuck up_!” he all but shouts, the screaming ringing in his ears.

The scream dies away, and Robb’s eyes open, and he looks almost shell-shocked for a moment, looking around Theon’s apartment with a strange, almost confused look in his eyes, then at Theon with pure shock. Like he knows Theon from somewhere, and it’s unsettling beyond all belief.

"You—" he starts.

"Robb," Theon says, "what. The. _Hell._ ”

Robb blinks for a moment, as if he’s trying to get a grip on himself, then says, “I—god, Theon, I am so sorry.”

"Does this usually happen?" Theon asks him, trying to keep his tone calm. "I mean, it didn’t when we fucked."

Robb sucks in a breath, says, “Sometimes it does. Mostly when I’m alone. Look, it’s fine, I’ll call a cab home—”

"How much money do you have that you didn’t blow on alcohol, Robb?" Theon sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. "Look, it’s three in the morning, god knows what’s going to happen to you if you go out now. You might as well just stay in my bed, since apparently you scream in your sleep when you don’t have someone near you."

"Not always,” Robb huffs, but lets Theon pull him up. He doesn’t lean so much anymore, but he does grumble something about a hangover, and Christ, it is way too early in the morning for this.

He wonders if this has something to do with Robb’s adoptive mother, the one who called him and sent him off into a bar to drink his sorrows down, down, down, and pushes those thoughts away to let Robb drop onto one side of his bed, before he clambers over to the other side and pulls the blankets up over himself.

Robb says, “Hey, Theon—”

"Shut up, Robb. Go to sleep."

Jesus Christ, Robb’s in the same bed as he is. _Again._ Okay, technically they aren’t fucking, and technically Theon hasn’t broken his “no repeats” rule yet, but this is pretty close, and his head is just screaming at him to do something about him, leave for the couch as soon as Robb’s asleep. And really, that’s what he’s planning to do.

But then Robb’s hand slips into his, and his brain just short-circuits, because he doesn’t mind it. At all.

And he knows he should, but the feeling of Robb’s hand in his is—well, it’s good. Somehow it’s strangely soothing, calming, and Theon could almost get used to this, to having Robb in his bed, fingers laced with his.

He shouldn’t, he knows, but he can’t find it in himself to mind.

He closes his eyes, his hand still holding Robb’s, and goes to sleep.

—

When Robb wakes up, it’s with a pounding headache, an faint feeling of nausea, a few seconds of confusion and disorientation, and his hand in Theon’s.

For a moment he scrambles to remember what the hell happened last night, that he’s in Theon’s bed once more—did they do anything, did they kiss and then topple into bed or something—but then he realizes he’s still wearing his clothes. And Theon isn’t, but he’s wearing boxers and a ratty old shirt. And the sheets are too clean for anything more than hand-holding to have happened.

And he’s still holding his hand.

Oh, gods.

Oh, _gods._

He slips his hand out of Theon’s, waits for him to react, but instead Theon just mumbles something and turns over, burying his face into his pillow with a funny little smile.

He should go. He should get out of here, walk out of here and pretend this never happened, and he’s already making his way out of the bedroom when the nausea hits and oh, gods, he regrets drinking so much the day before, because now he needs to get to the bathroom or he’ll puke all over Theon’s carpet.

Robb stumbles over to where he vaguely remembers the bathroom is, staggering inside and yep, he’s right, there’s the toilet. Gods, he hopes Theon has some aspirin in his medicine closet, because this headache is only going to get worse over the day.

After some violent and thankfully brief retching, he gets to his feet, hauling himself up on the sink, and turns the faucet on and starts splashing his face. Once he’s done, he turns it off, then looks up at the mirror.

He looks…well, he looks as if he’s had better days. There are dark circles under his eyes, his hair looks frankly horrid and a little too long for his liking (and, when he tries to run his hand through it, feels rather tangled as well), and he’s a few days overdue for a shave. And that isn’t even getting into how he _feels_ —like a complete, total wreck.

Right. His entire life has just decided to go straight down the drain, hasn’t it? First his mother calls, then he loses his job, and he’s still got to pay rent and find a job and pay the other bills. Not to mention, there’s still the matter of Theon.

"You look like hell, you know," Theon says, leaning against the doorway, and Robb almost jumps from the surprise. "Glad to see you’re awake."

"You couldn’t have _knocked_ first?” Robb asks him. “And—okay, I am really sorry for waking you up at three in the morning—”

"You’d better be," Theon huffs, and straightens up. "Seriously, though, what happened?"

"Nightmares," Robb says, evasively. "Can I not talk about it?"

Theon blinks at him, evidently surprised at how snappish his voice sounds, and Robb immediately wants to tell him the truth, but he’s too afraid of what might happen if he took Theon by the shoulders and told him, right then and there.

Then Theon holds his hands up, and says, “Okay, okay. No talking about that. I guess I can do that.” He pauses, then asks, “But are you seeing anyone for it?”

"Sort of," Robb says. Brienne’s a therapist, even if Robb is less her actual client and more of the guy who just shows up at her doorstep every so often to tell her about his memories and his dreams and his nightmares and everything else in between. "Again, can I not talk about it?"

"Secretive, aren’t we?" Theon remarks, and Robb can see the hurt in his eyes, hear it in his voice. "Hey, look, it’s fine, you can keep them. None of my business, anyway."

He turns away, and Robb blurts, “I read John Green.”

Theon stops in his tracks, turns back around, and says, “Say what?”

"You said something last night," Robb says, digging through his fuzzy, alcohol-blurred memories of last night. "You’d tell me something you’ve never told anyone, and I’d tell you something I’d never told anyone. Like an exchange of secrets. So I’m telling you, I read John Green a lot. And, if I can recall, you told me last night your shampoo smells of—of—"

"Citrus," Theon says. "So, okay, now we’re quits."

"No, we’re not," Robb persists. "Because guess what, I also happen to have five different versions of Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’ on my iPod, and no one else knows that but me, and now you."

Theon gapes at him as if he’s just handed him a time bomb and told him to defuse it in thirty seconds before it blows them all up to hell. “You’re serious,” he says. “Coldplay. _Coldplay._ Oh my god.”

"And now you owe me a secret," Robb says.

Theon huffs, crosses his arms and glares at him. “It’s too early for this,” he says.

"You don’t have to say it _now_ ,” Robb tells him. “I mean, you can say it later, or tomorrow, or a week from now, even. But you owe me a secret.”

"Okay," Theon grumbles. "Fine. I’ll tell you later, but get out of my bathroom first. I’ve got to take a bath." He shoves Robb out the door, and slams it shut, muttering something dark under his breath.

Robb looks around. He should go, he knows, but it occurs to him that he’s not quite ready to go back to his apartment yet. And…well. Bacon pancakes aren’t that hard to make, right? There’s a video on YouTube showing how to make them and everything, if he can remember right.

All right. Time to play find the laptop and the ingredients.

—

The moment Theon steps out of the bathroom, he realizes he can smell something coming from the kitchen. Pancakes. And bacon. And someone’s put the goddamn bacon pancake song on.

And he still hasn’t put his clothes on. Theon sighs—first, clothes. He knows clothes are kind of a moot point when Robb’s already seen him naked, and sucked him off besides, but Theon has his pride, goddammit, so he makes a beeline for the bedroom to at least put a shirt and pants on before he strides into the kitchen to find Robb flipping slightly burned bacon pancakes onto a plate. His laptop is on the kitchen table, and it’s playing that video.

"You’re making me breakfast again," Theon says, a little dumbstruck.

"Yeah," Robb says. "Hey, I had to borrow your laptop to find that video, I hope you don’t mind."

"You’re making me _bacon pancakes_.” Okay, they’re slightly burned, but still. Who even _makes_ bacon pancakes outside of kids’ shows? Who takes the effort to do that?

Apparently, the answer to that is "Robb".

"That’s kinda obvious already," Robb mildly says, setting the plate in the center of the table.

"This is some kind of weird attempt at getting my secret out of me, isn’t it?" Theon asks. Robb’s—well, actually _Theon’s_ , but he regrets even suggesting it now—little game is the only thing that comes to mind now as the reason why Robb would make him breakfast.

"No," Robb says. "I just felt like breakfast. I figure you still don’t want to tell me just yet."

Theon is just about to tell him that maybe he doesn’t want to tell him his secrets, especially not something as big as _I think I might just be falling in love with you more and more_ , but. Pancakes. Bacon pancakes. Actual, in real life _bacon pancakes_.

Secrets, he decides, can wait. He sits down, pours an unhealthy amount of honey over his stack of pancakes, and digs in, savoring each bite. Sure, it tastes slightly burned, but it’s not completely bad.

"You’re not a bad cook," he says, once he’s finished with his stack. Robb’s staring at his plate with a slightly horrified look on his face, but then his gaze snaps up and the horror’s replaced by surprise. "Could’ve been better, but it’s good."

"Thanks," Robb says, and he’s smiling, and Theon’s stomach should not be flipping like this, Theon should not be wanting to see Robb smile because of him more, he _shouldn’t._

_It was only once_ , he reminds himself, keeps having to remind himself every time he looks at Robb and thinks of snowflakes in his hair. (and—and _why_ would he think of snowflakes in Robb’s hair, has he been watching too many romantic comedies set around Christmas time or something?)

Now, if only he can bring himself to remember that, in the face of Robb’s bright smile.

(He tries not to think about the fact that he’d rather forget that, and kiss Robb a little more.

He really, _really_ tries not to.)

(Okay, so maybe he’s not trying as hard as he should.

God _dammit._ )


End file.
